Sovngarde Beckons
by Beibhinn Celia Blackwood
Summary: He had thought that his destiny was already fulfilled, that the world had left him as a husk of what he once was. War did that to a man. So, he goes back to the land of his forefathers. There, he finds that his destiny hadn't even begun. He begins to understand that the Gods had more in mind for him than a quiet disappearance into cold winters. Oh, he also finds her. M!Dovahkiin/OC


**Well...what can I say I love Skyrim to pieces. And so, here is my tribute to the Dovahkiin...hopefully ya'll like this little preview and all the chapters to come!**

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There were not many things he remembered of his homeland. He remembered the cold – no other place in all Tamriel had such a cold. He remembered the landscape – great sweeping views that could take a man's breath away. Mountains that seemed to claw at the sky. Deep, lush valley's that one could become lost in.

He had seen many parts of the Empire while he was in the legion. But now, as he crossed the Jarall Mountains he felt as though the earth he walked on called to him.

It spoke of old things, old memories. Of dappled sunlight on a young boy's skin, of cold foggy mornings. It whispered across his skin with the wind, welcoming him back. Welcoming him home.

He shivered and readjusted his pack. The cold felt familiar on his skin, like a part of him that he'd left behind all those years ago.

He had been hesitant to return here – indeed he had not decided to come back until his feet had turned North on the road out of the Imperial City. He had spent so many years running from this land, so many years denying it. Now here he was, on Skyrim soil and still heading North.

_I must be mad_.

He didn't know quite where he was heading, but he had a map and memories to guide him. And the path he followed would lead him to a township eventually. Then it would be a simple choice of direction. And then…then he didn't know.

He shifted his greatsword on his back, making sure it was in its familiar place. He was no fool, and he was more than a seasoned traveler. Weapons were a necessity when crossing the Empire – despite the capital's claims that the provinces were safe.

Keeping his eyes on his surroundings, Rodran continued down the road, his footsteps soft and his gait fluid. The hill he was climbing was not steep, but the "road" – if it could be called that – was loose dirt and looser stones. Not the safest footing.

He had just stepped around a stone that had come unlodged – thinking about finding a sheltering tree to sleep under for the night – when out of the silent forest he heard the clamoring of horse hooves.

He dodged to the side of the road, hiding just on the other side of some bushes and unsheathing his sword. Crouching, he watched as a riderless horse passed, followed by two more horses with men in the saddles.

He heard shouting in the rough, lolling accents of the North, the twang of bow-strings, the roar of magical flame that made his skin tingle in recognition. And of course, the familiar clash of metal on metal that always marked a battle. Suddenly, he was on the edge of an ambush.

Men in the uniform of the Legion – meeting blades with warriors in blue wool and leather uniforms that he had never seen before – came into view.

On instinct he began to back away from the road, moving as silently as he could into the forest. He wasn't sure how large this battle was, but he continued to head North, trying to keep his bearings as best he could.

He thought that he was beginning to pass this strange ambush by – and was starting to pick up his pace – when he heard heavy rustling steps behind him. He turned just in time to see the club end of a warhammer as it struck him.

He fell, his hands losing his sword and his body going limp. His eyes closed – or else the world went black.

"Bind his arms and put him with the others! The General is waiting…"

SB

The rocking motion twisted his stomach, and his body rolled with the motion like a sack of potatoes. Slowly he opened his eyes, squinting against the sudden light.

He was in the back of a wagon. And a fellow Nord sat across from him. He was in that rustic looking uniform of blue.

He sighed against the pain in his head, it was throbbing and showing no sign of letting up. The man spoke, but he paid no mind to his words.

He caught his name – Ralof – before he started arguing with some other fool next to him. A horse thief that had gotten caught in the same trap as Rodran. And a fool, to think he would be released simply on his word. Rodran knew the way the Legion worked, knew what justice meant in a warzone.

He held in a sneer and looked around, trying to overcome the pulsing of his skull.

There was another prisoner in the cart, an imperious looking Nord that gave the impression of scowling even though his mouth was covered. Rodran disliked him instantly.

He caught the name "Jarl Ulfric" and looked away with a sigh. One of their kings, then.

"Hey! Quiet down back there!" The wagon driver's yell interrupted the horse thief's complaints.

Grinding his teeth, he turned and faced the direction they were headed, tuning out the other two men and their chatter.

He was the first to see the town that the wagons arrived at.

"This is Helgen. I used to be sweet on a girl from here."

Rodran clenched his jaw. He had passed through this town once before, so long ago. But he had been so young then…never blooded, and a sword had been so awkward in his hands.

Now here he was, back in the land of his birth and about to be sent to his death. He pushed the pain from his mind and focused on what was to come.

It was a beautiful morning, the sun was warm and the air was cool and crisp. He closed his eyes as the wagon stopped, and breathed deeply. Strange, that he had come all this way to die.

Hopping down from the wagon was an awkward affair, hobbled as he was. And his heavy armor didn't make it any easier. He thought nothing of giving his name to an Imperial soldier, nor was he surprised that the captain sent him to the headsman despite his lack of involvement. The horse thief being shot down like the fleeing coward he was made him feel a bit of pity. But cowards ran, and that was the way it was. His own death would be cleaner, thank Kyne.

He barely heard words spoken through the pounding of his skull, but he kept his eyes on the pure blue sky and focused on the sound of the wind in his ears. He barely heard the axe take a man's head from his shoulders.

But he did hear the strange echo that vibrated through the clearing and echoed off of the tall stone walls. Every hair tingled, his skin thrumming as something vibrated in the air. His eyes searched the sky.

A hand on his back pushed him forward. He stumbled and nearly fell before catching himself. A fist wrapped around his arm and led him to the block. His time, then. He took a breath, and a prayer passed his lips as his cheek touched the wooden block that was still warm from another man's blood.

The sound came again, louder. It hummed through him, something in his chest welling up into his throat, pressing to be released.

The headsman raised his axe – but it was only a blur in the foreground as something in the sky came into his view. Something so large and black and fast as to overwhelm the sky. Something with wings.

The sound came again – a roar that seemed to crush all other sounds beneath its might.

"Dragon!" A woman screamed, and suddenly all was chaos.

The dragon – what else could it be? – landed atop a tower, its great black bulk seeming to block the light from his eyes. Black eyes that burned like forge fires seemed to pin his very soul in place.

Fear the likes of which he had never known washed through him, and that great head raised to the sky and made a sound that seemed to rattle the air. It stirred something deep down inside of him.

Suddenly with a loud crash the sky was a bowl of swirling crimson clouds. A hand pulled him up and was gone, and on instinct he was running. He didn't know where, he just had to escape, had to outrun the chaos and the fear that was inside of him.

He ran until he recognized something – someone. The soldier that he had given his name to. He was crouched down, obviously wounded and bleeding in the dirt. Without thought Rodran hauled him up and threw him against the stone wall – just as rumbling dragon-fire swept over where they had been standing. The heat seared the air – only his armor protected him.

"Follow me!" He yelled over the roar of flames and wind and wings. "Into the keep! Quickly!"

And he pulled the soldier behind him into the refuge of stone walls.

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**Let me know what you think! Please review!  
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